


Every Ghost Story Is a Love Story

by folderol



Series: After Lucille [1]
Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Edith/Alan backstory, F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Incest, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5302892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folderol/pseuds/folderol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half a year after the incidents at Allerdale Hall, Edith is still looking to the past. Alan encourages her to write about her experiences, reviving an unexpected connection to the Sharpes -- and to Edith's future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary Shelley

**Author's Note:**

> The title is appropriated from D.T. Max's biography of David Foster Wallace, Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story. A book which I have not read, but like Max, I love the mystery of this phrase.
> 
> This story is set around 1902.

* * *

“There is love in me the likes of which you’ve never seen.

There is rage in me the likes which should never escape.

If I am not satisfied with one, I shall indulge the other.”

Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

* * *

 

In her dream, it seemed that she stood for a while by the rusting gate leading to the abandoned driveway. The road’s crimson-colored earth, exposed to the elements, was just as vivid as she had remembered it. An arid wind blew across the desolate moors, but Edith did not feel it, so preoccupied she was with the dark ruin situated in front of her.

Allerdale was as foreboding as it ever had been. It was so strange to think that not long ago, Edith had fervently hoped that it would be her new home, after her ties to Buffalo had been severed by the sudden death of her father.

But Allerdale had never been hers, that was true -- and now it was still barred to her, spiritually and physically. A heavy chain was wrapped around the gate like a silvery snake, forbidding her from thrusting it open.

A curious sensation caused her spine to tingle. She swiveled her head around, alarmed, alert -- she was reminded of the presence of the ghosts of Allerdale. A slight gust blew around her feet and she sprang upwards, instantly possessed with the power of flight.

Edith felt like a ghost as she gaped in wonder at the lonely landscape. She soared towards the front doors of Allerdale Hall.

Nature had taken control of this once magnificent castle. Vines and wild grass and moss had clawed their way inside, growing freely on the stone walls and between the cracks of the rotting floorboards.

Edith gazed at the spot where a slight padding of snow once broke her fall from a high balcony.

Edith presently flew up to to that balcony, examining it with relish. She could remember Lucille’s face, devoid of emotion other than unadulterated joy in having revealed all her secrets. She was in boundless ecstasy in being on the brink of killing her romantic rival.

Edith recalled Thomas, her dear Thomas, crying that Lucille mustn't do this. The echo of his voice had bounced in the cavernous hall, but it did nothing in preventing Lucille from throwing Edith off the edge.

She had descended through the air, feeling only despair in what should have been her last moments of life...

Edith shuddered and shook her head, ridding herself of that terrible memory.

She continued her exploration, soaring through other parts of the deserted house, the parts where she was happiest. The bedroom she and Thomas had shared, where she occasionally caught a kiss from him in secret, always with his eyes sliding towards the door and hyperaware of his sister’s unseen presence. The attic workshop, where Thomas had passionately worked on his trinkets and creations and inventions, and where they had almost embraced each other fully.

Edith sighed. She could see no Thomas in her dream, no Lucille…

She was alone. Perhaps that was the most frightening realization of her dream.

 

* * *

 

Edith awoke with a start, gasping. A sense of déjà vu washed over her; it felt like all those times in Allerdale Hall when she would awake from her living nightmare, only to be confronted with another shock.

She stretched and turned over on her back, gazing at the familiar ornate ceiling of her childhood bedroom. She was home. She was home in Buffalo.

She sighed again. _She was safe_ , she reminded herself. Nothing could get her here. She hadn’t returned to Allerdale Hall…

Still, the feelings from her dream lingered. A tear ran down the already damp surface of her cheek, mixing with the cold sweat that had settled there. As in the dream, she felt alone.

“If you’re here, give me a sign,” she said aloud, instinctively.

No one responded.

The only reason why she came back to Buffalo was in the vague hope of seeing her father again, as a ghost. This house was the only real link she had to him.

She missed him. She missed his voice, his beard, his twinkling eyes, his protectiveness. She missed the stability of her life with him, his dependable presence, the centering force his dynamic personality had given her life, his wisdom. His infinite wisdom.

There was no Father, whose lap was a refuge from the unspeakable nightmares that had plagued her childhood. There was no Thomas to comfort her, with his soothing voice and gracious words.

Her stomach ached; another tear escaped the confines of her eyes. There was no one to comfort her but the rational half of her mind.

 

* * *

 

“Last night I dreamt I went to Allerdale again,” she said to Alan the next day, at tea. “It was empty and _completely_ eerie. I saw all the rooms I used to walk in…”

She let herself drift off as she caught the alarm in Alan’s eyes. His light eyebrows arched, questioning Edith as he took a sip of tea. He placed his cup down with a careful clink.

“Edith,” he said kindly, in the bedside manner that had intensified since she had left hospital care. “I’m worried about you. You seem awfully obsessed with the Sharpes business. Last month, you were obsessed with the police not finding the bodies. It’s a bit morbid. It’s been six months now. I understand why you’re haunted…”

Here he paused, sensitive about his word choice.

“I can understand why you’re _preoccupied_ by this, but as your friend, I think you should try to get over it. You need to find some closure.”

Edith could feel herself bristling at this. She straightened her back and almost hissed: “How on _earth_ could I do that?”

All of a sudden, her voice was laced with a storm of emotion.

“How can I leave this madness behind me when it almost _killed_ me?” she cried.

Alan sat up straighter as well, reaching out to clutch her shaking hands with his steady ones. She stared at him boldly, daring him to start shaking as she was, as if she could transfer her anguish to him and break the silent surface of his face. His eyes gazed tenderly at hers, unaffected by her sudden rage.

She dropped her hands abruptly and exhaled deeply.

“I’m going back to England,” she said spontaneously.

Alan’s unperturbed eyes finally widened in surprise. “Back to _Allerdale_?”

“No,” she snapped. “Other parts of England. I’ve always wanted to see where my favorite authors lived.” She was gabbing now, grasping for any reasonable excuse to leave New York. “Perhaps I’ll see the great museums of London. It’ll be good for me.”

Edith stared coldly at Alan. She paused, then asserted:

“Anyway, there is nothing for me here.”

Alan blinked, still looking uncertain and a little hurt at her accusation that he wasn’t being helpful to her.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”

Edith picked up her own cup of tea, adding a dash of sugar and ignoring its lukewarm temperature. It was much sweeter than that bitter tea she was forced to drink in Allerdale. A cross look must have shadowed her face as she recalled her poisoning, because her expression prompted Alan to return to a previous subject.

“I want to make a suggestion, Edith,” he said. “I’ve been reading an Austrian doctor named Sigmund Freud. This fellow writes about how talking can be a therapeutic exercise. Perhaps you could try to do the same with writing? You’ve always expressed yourself well in writing.”

Again, Alan reached across the table and wrapped his fingers around hers, warming them.

“You should tell your story,” he said gently.

 

* * *

 

Wrapped in her grief, Edith had no patience with Alan and his ideas. She could not see how he could lift the dark cloud that covered her mind, the cloud of depression that followed her after the death of her husband.

She stood on the prow of the ship heading to Liverpool, gazing at the grey Atlantic waves as rough winds whipped around her solitary figure. “If it didn’t matter,” she whispered. “Then it wouldn’t hurt.”

Her words flew away on the wind, unheard by no one but herself.

 

* * *

 

The weak English summer sun shone over the Dorset cemetery and the gravestone Edith had been searching for. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed the words MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT by her side. That meant her daughter must be nearby.

Mary Shelley’s gravestone was indeed next to her mother’s. No quotes, Edith noticed. Just her dates of birth and death, as well as the names of her famous parents.

Edith realized she was somewhat disappointed. She wished to sit at the feet of her literary godmother, to learn something life-changing…

She sat down on the grass with a sigh.

_Actually, Mrs. McMichael, I would prefer to be Mary Shelley. She died a widow._ __

She once said those exact words to Alan’s mother, that snobbish, infuriating woman. That’s what she wanted to be, she had once triumphantly proclaimed: she wanted to be a widow, not a spinster.

She smiled bitterly. How naïve she had been a year ago.

No wonder Thomas had sensed her innocence, her misplaced sense of idealism.

_It’s absurdly sentimental. The aches that you describe with such earnestness, the pain, the loss. You clearly haven’t lived at all. In fact, you only seem to know what other writers tell you. You insist on describing the torments of love when you clearly know nothing about it._

It was ironic, she thought. Now she knew too much of the torments of love. Despite everything, she loved Sir Thomas Sharpe. The pain she felt told her she still loved him.

_You know precious little of the human heart, or love, or the pain that comes with it._

She knew too that Thomas was an accomplice to several murders, of his parents, his three previous wives, and her own father. It hurt to believe that he was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. She knew that he was weak and imperfect, scarred by his unnatural love and attachment to his sister.

But she missed him. This much she knew.

She missed his lively eyes, lit up by his curiosity about her stories. No one had ever taken her writing seriously before. She missed watching him working intently in his attic studio, his mind whirling in order to solve the practical puzzles in front of him. Then he would look up at her, tenderly examining her, always delighted and surprised to see her.

Yes, she missed him dearly.

Edith closed her eyes. A breeze -- tranquil, unlike the rough winds of Cumberland -- tickled her skin and caused the nearby beech trees to rustle their leaves. She heard bird song in the distance, the buzzing of bees nearby.

The cemetery was a natural sanctuary. She suddenly felt at ease, strangely at peace in a place of the dead.

This was the kind of loneliness she could deal with.

Her thoughts moved back to Mary Shelley. Didn’t her Doctor Frankenstein create his monster out of loneliness, out of a need for a companion? A great invention indeed…

“Invention,” Edith muttered. There was a memorable quote with that word in Mary Shelley’s introduction to her own _Frankenstein_. It was something she had copied into her diary. It was a sentence that had resonated with her.

_Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos._

Chaos! That was the perfect word to describe the seething confusion in her head.

Alan was right. She needed to write, to organize this chaos, to invent and create… She needed to return to her sanctuary of language and simply write.

She whipped out the small leather notepad she always carried, its corners bent with age. She had frequently written story ideas in it, phrases that spoke to her and that she wanted to reuse in her fiction. Edith hadn’t written in it in months, almost a year.

A familiar warmth rushed to her hand as she wielded her pen -- her father’s gift, which had once saved her life -- and she began to write:

“Ghosts are real. This much I know.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of literary references in this chapter:
> 
> \- Mary Shelley, for obvious reasons. While the quote at the beginning is commonly attributed to her, I couldn't find it in Frankenstein. But then again, I've never read the entirety of Frankenstein. Just wanted to mention that.
> 
> \- Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier, in the dream scene and Edith's first words to Alan in the second scene. I thought Crimson Peak was such a crazy throwback to the romantic thrillers/melodrama films of the 1940s, such as the 1940 film adaptation of Rebecca by Alfred Hitchcock. I think there's some interesting parallels going on between Rebecca and Crimson Peak.
> 
> \- Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer's Studies on Hysteria, which theorized a "talking cure," was published in 1895. I think it's reasonable that Alan, a doctor, might come across it in his studies.
> 
> \- Lady Caroline Lamb famously described Lord Byron as "mad, bad, and dangerous to know." Thomas is definitely a variation on the Byronic hero.
> 
> \- I wrote the brief ship scene before I realized I was probably subconsciously inspired by this beautiful line from Julian Barnes' Levels of Life: “Nature is so exact, it hurts exactly as much as it is worth, so in a way one relishes the pain, I think. If it didn't matter, it wouldn't matter.”


	2. Jane Austen

* * *

“‘Oh! It is only a novel!’ replies the young lady… or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.”

Jane Austen, _Northanger Abbey_

* * *

 

A sense of purpose returned to Edith’s life as she worked on her memoir-cum-novel. She wrote and rewrote, thought and rethought, in a cozy hotel in Marylebone. Edith was content with the anonymous bustle of the city and satisfied with the steady progress on her book. Her hands and fingers were stained with the blossom of ink -- most unbecoming, she knew, but she was pleased nonetheless.

Writing had never flowed so easily out of her. Within a week, she had over a hundred pages of furious scribbles -- full of descriptions of Allerdale, a deliciously astute account of Lucille (“she looked at me just as a falcon measures its prey, with a vicious and entirely natural judgment as to how to best maim, slaughter, and devour its prey”) and of course, a cathartic reenactment of her father’s murder.

Edith had to put down her pen and lay her head upon her hotel bed after being reminded of that fateful morning, upset by the imagery of her father’s bloody corpse. The completely smashed skull; the blood dripping, seeping -- the sheer force and strength and brutality that must have caused that level of damage. The sheer _fear_ that her father must have felt in his last moments.

Although writing about her father’s outrageously inhumane bashing was extremely distressing to her, writing about Thomas was even more difficult. She wondered if she had the talent to recreate Thomas in her writing. How could she translate his entire being onto the page?

_“I find myself thinking of you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine. And should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, my heart would cease to be and I would die. And you… you’d simply forget about me.”_

Edith sighed as she placed her pen down once again, this time on the desk. She had not forgotten him at all, just as she had told him that wonderful day. She wished she had photographic memory in order to capture that moment: that moment that changed her life and made her realize there was someone in the world who wanted her. Someone who liked her -- loved her, perhaps -- just as she was.

* * *

 

Alan soon came to visit her in London. He tipped his hat to her and formally took her arm as they strolled down Oxford Street, the very image of a compatible married couple. Edith felt almost uncomfortably mature.

“I’ve missed you, Edith,” he said, smiling down at her. “I have something exciting to show you.”

Hand in hand, they walked to Soho together. Edith wondered if she and Thomas would have ever ambled around in London like this, like a true married couple. Undoubtedly Lucille would have been dogging their every step, ensuring that Thomas would never be affectionate to his wife in public. Edith shook her head, brushing herself of the thought.

“You’ve been very quiet lately,” said Alan, noticing her slight movement. “What are you thinking about?”

There was something so gentle about Alan’s manner that such questions, if asked by someone less likeable, would usually seem intrusive. Edith pulled together a tight smile. It felt like a long time since she had smiled; the muscles around her mouth felt strained.

“I took your advice,” she replied. “I’ve started writing again, and… well, it feels good. I’m feeling refreshed. Maybe I’m getting over it.”

Alan’s smile was genuine, his eyes warm. She looked away shyly, towards the display windows of the elegant shops. She could feel his gaze lingering on her face.

* * *

 

Alan’s surprise turned out to be a motion picture from France called _A Trip to the Moon_. Edith had heard rave reviews from New York City about this new art form of moving images, but she had never experienced anything like it before.

She gasped -- as did the rest of the audience -- when she saw people moving, walking, waving on the screen in front of her. Behind her, the projector whirled furiously with a constant clacking, but this Edith hardly noticed. The playful pianist by the side of the screen accelerated the pace of the story, building tension as the people on the screen built a rocket.

The movie abounded with celebration. People in the motion picture cheered at the prospect of going to the moon, they cheered when the rocket was launched, and they cheered as they exited the rocket and saw the earth rising above the horizon: a surreal image, an image straight out of a dream.

Edith felt like cheering as well. Her heart felt lighter than it had in quite a long time, as she and Alan left the theater.

“Did you like that?” asked Alan, in his deep voice, grinning. “I just saw it in New York last week and couldn’t wait to show it to you.”

She turned to him, eyes bright and brimming with vivacity. “I loved it! I absolutely _loved_ it. The whole adventure of discovering new worlds, of coming back… that was very beautiful to watch.”

Her smile for him was sincere this time. “Thank you for showing me, Alan,” she said, as she reached out to wrap her arm around his.

“My pleasure, as always.”

* * *

 

They had supper together the next few evenings and explored the pockets of London, which were so rich in history, so different from Buffalo. Their American hometown was a young city, thriving because of commerce and industry. In contrast, London was ancient, built by the Romans and constantly inhabited, lively with its unsurpassed array of art and culture. Edith and Alan indulged the whims of their curiosities -- at museums, at concert halls, in parks -- in a whirlwind of carefree days.

As they crossed Tower Bridge aside a throng of German tourists, Edith realized she didn’t know when exactly she became so comfortable with Alan, or how they became friends.

When they were children, he always seemed more mature than the other children, older than the four years that separated them. Alan was a natural teacher, someone who was always seeking knowledge and redistributing it to the other children they grew up with. The McMichaels were a social, boisterous family. Edith was often invited to their parties and soirees -- partly out of pity, as she was an only child with neither siblings nor mother, and partly due to Alan’s kindness.

He had always championed her within his own family, against his aggressive mother and sneering sisters. He had always helped her. It was no surprise to her that out of all of the members of her social circle, he was the one who came to Allerdale to save her.

 _I’m lucky to have him_ , Edith thought as they sat in their loge seats at the Royal Opera House. She felt so sophisticated, here in the heart of London, watching the most talented singers in the world. She felt their emotions wash over her -- their fears, joys, and trepidation were hers as well.

“May I… may we take a stroll in the park before we end our evening together?” Alan asked abruptly. She noticed his hand leaving an imprint of heat on the metal handle as he held the grand door open for her.

“Of course,” said Edith, a little puzzled. It wasn’t like Alan to be nervous.

As they walked into the cool evening air, Edith gushed about the opera, its symbolism, its power. Alan nodded away, unengaged but not bored. Edith, realizing she was being forthcoming and over-talkative, quieted herself. They walked down the dark block at a leisurely pace, not speaking to one another.

Edith noticed that Alan was now holding his hands tightly behind his back, which was straighter than usual. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“Edith,” Alan began in a solemn voice. His face was lit by the lamp of the columned house they had slowly stopped in front of, but Edith couldn’t make out his expression. Still, she realized the weight of his question before he asked it.

“I’m sure you’ve known this for years, because you’re a storyteller and you can predict where this was going. I must confess that I’ve… cared for you for years.”

His voice, already hushed, dropped in volume.

“Will you marry me?”

Edith unconsciously opened her mouth, still surprised nonetheless. “I… really.” She breathed out, her heart beating in a way that she was sure would give her away.

“I know you’re going through a difficult time,” he said, eyes intently searching her for any affirmative sign. “But I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know that…” she said, in a quiet voice quite unlike her own.

They stood there in silence for a while, unable to act or react. Edith could smell the faint scent of his cologne; they were standing very close.

“Well, you don’t need to decide now,” he said suddenly. “You see, I just thought of it today and I haven’t got a ring anyway.”

He smiled modestly, with a touch of self-deprecation at his spontaneity.

Edith laughed, breaking the serious tone the conversation had taken. “Not prepared this time, are you, Doctor?”

“No,” he said. “But next time, I promise you.”

Alan then tipped his hat. “Good evening, Edith,” he said in low voice.

Before Edith could do anything, Alan was nothing but a shadow disappearing into the night.

* * *

 

“Could I marry him?” Edith asked aloud to herself, as she prepared for bed. She absentmindedly fluffed her pillow and slipped underneath the sheets in her canopy bed.

Father would have been delighted. He and Alan had been fairly good friends, considering their age gap. He had treated Alan almost like a son, somewhat like a younger brother. Edith’s father knew of Alan as an upstanding young man with good character and a lot of potential.

But was he right for her?

Many years ago, Edith had fancied herself in love with Alan. She had read romantic novels and serial magazine stories; she loved fairy tales and desperately believed in the existence of a soulmate. This was before she turned her back on this simplistic template and became enchanted with ghost stories, with their disillusioned -- but still luminous -- vision of eternal love.

The boy she knew best then was Alan. He seemed to understand, with his open eyes and he was always interested in her opinions, although at times she felt he treated them as passing curiosities, the products of an overactive feminine mind. Despite her youthful doubts, she wrote him a love letter. She cringed to think of it now, all gawky metaphors and tasteless rhymes, and he looked abashed the next time she saw him.

The letter intended to bring them together instead separated them. It turned out to be easy to avoid each other as their adolescence waned. He went off to boarding school in Pennsylvania, then medical training in the City, then scientific research abroad. All those intellectually stimulating places that boys were allowed to go, but barred to Edith.

Alan and Edith had only brief, painfully stilted conversations for years. Edith’s letter had been an elephant in the room. Her writing to him had only been an embarrassment. Her mortification about the whole Alan incident had led her to avoid love stories for a long time.

“You’ve been gone a long time. Well, I’ve managed somewhat,” she told him, when he warned her about her interest in the Sharpes at his new office in Buffalo. She had instinctively thought he was trying to bring up the subject of the love letter. She shut it down before the conversation even veered close to her own constructed infatuation with him.

They had a past together. She remembered telling Thomas not to look to the past… perhaps she should take her own suggestion to heart.

Alan was a good man, easy to like. Perhaps she didn’t love him with the burning passion Cathy had for Heathcliff, but she couldn’t imagine hating him -- _ever_. He had a good character, a steady income, a purpose in life -- to cure other people of their ailments -- and he obviously cared for her.

Jane Austen said that happiness was fickle and random in marriage. Happiness was born out of chance.

Objectively, marrying Sir Thomas Sharpe was a terrible choice of Willoughby-level proportions. Everyone warned Edith against it: her father, Alan, even her dead mother.

In retrospect, now that she knew all the facts, Thomas had been a potentially disastrous choice: he was bankrupt, lived in a dilapidated mansion far from civilization, and had a mentally unstable sister. It was, she had to concede, unlikely that she would have a fleeting happiness in her marriage to Thomas.

But it had happened: they were happy, despite… well, practically everything.

 **  
** As Edith turned off the lamp and shut her eyes, she resolved she would put the past behind her, once she published _Crimson Peak_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more historical notes and references:
> 
> \- A Trip to the Moon came out in the fall of 1902 in France. I imagine it would have played in London soon afterwards, or the next year. I set this chapter during the summer... so perhaps it's not historically accurate (in my book) but hey, I just wanted to capture that historical moment of seeing a movie for the first time!
> 
> \- Edith's reflection about not being sure exactly when she became friends with Alan was inspired by Elizabeth's line about falling in love with Darcy, in Pride and Prejudice: "It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began."
> 
> \- Reference to Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights: "Perhaps she didn’t love him with the burning passion Cathy had for Heathcliff..."
> 
> \- Edith paraphrases Charlotte Lucas' quote about marriage in Pride and Prejudice: "Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance."
> 
> \- Reference to John Willoughby, the dashing but ultimately scandalous suitor from Sense and Sensibility: "Objectively, marrying Sir Thomas Sharpe was a terrible choice of Willoughby-level proportions."
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading this far -- I'm practically done with this story, so the rest of the chapters will be posted very soon.


	3. Charlotte Brontë

* * *

 “Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.”

Charlotte Brontë, _Villette_

* * *

Autumn, with its encroaching darkness and morning frosts, was an ideal season for reading ghost stories. Or perhaps the English had a deeper appreciation and respect for ghosts. _Crimson Peak_ by Edith Cushing Sharpe was swiped up by the first publisher Edith sent her manuscript to.

When she received her complimentary copy, she ran her finger over her embossed name on the cover. Her name, in print! She was finally a bona fide author.

Her father would have been so proud. In her mind’s eye, he would be standing behind her, his hand placed protectively on her shoulder, his strong frame held high.

She picked up her pen, the pen he had presented to her so long ago, after she had been rejected by another potential publisher. It was all thanks to him, with his encouragement and patience, even if he had never quite understood the importance of stories to her. He was gone, but he was still within her, guiding her conscience.

Edith paused. There was someone else she should thank as well. She sat down at her hotel desk, tightening her grip around her beloved pen as she began to write:

_Dearest Alan,_

_My dream came true today: my book has been accepted for publication at Robertson & Roe. I would like to thank you for your inspiration. You are why._

_I have given considerable thought to your question to me over the summer. I must confess that my answer is yes._

_Love,_

_Edith_

She placed her pen down and held her letter up for examination. She smiled.

It made sense, after all. Edith was in love with the idea of a happy ending. What better than to match her own happy completion of the writing of Crimson Peak and the beginning of her new life as a published writer. She was closing this chapter of her life. Marrying Alan, her childhood best friend, would be the next chapter.

* * *

 

By the time Edith returned to Buffalo after the winter storms, reviews of her novel began appearing on her native side of the Atlantic. A young writer also named Edith, Edith Wharton, had reviewed her book favorably in _The New York Times_ :

“Mrs. Cushing Sharpe represents a formidable voice to the hybrid ghost story. Her heroine’s deceptively naive perspective masks an inner strength, invisibly shielding her from the ominous events of the story. While the plot is not dissimilar to a number of recent gothic romances, this writer reveals a steady intelligence that has absorbed lessons from her Brontë and her James. Given the authoress’ biography, this reader cannot help but ponder the thin line between fiction and memory -- a strange and enticing veneer…”

* * *

 

She awoke with a start in the middle of the night again. Edith sat up, tensely gripping her quilts.

“Who’s there?”

A pale figure was suddenly standing next to her bed. He gazed at her, full of judgment.

It was her father.

There was a gaping hole where his forehead should have been. If Edith could touch him, she knew his cheeks would be moist with blood, the same blood that had stained the club’s shower room tiles, tainted them forever.

“Father?”

He had grasped his hands together, like a solemn priest. He bowed his head towards her. Edith was struck by how different this encounter was compared to the frightening ones with her mother.

“What do you want?” she whispered anxiously.

He stared at her. She was sure, for a moment, that he wouldn’t be able to speak -- much like her final encounter with Thomas’ spirit, back on her last day at Allerdale Hall…

But speak he did:

“ _Don’t do it, child._ ”

She blinked, holding back tears she hadn’t realized were there.

“Don’t… d-don’t do what, Father?”

In response, he signed, causing a slight breeze to ripple across the room.

“ _Don’t marry him_ ,” her father whispered.

Her eyes widened. “But why?”

Her question would never be answered. Already difficult to see, his visage seemed to be fading, the way the moon would flicker upon being steadily covered by a passing cloud. His eyes locked to hers impassionately as she reached a shaking hand to touch his cheek. She could feel him -- _almost_ \-- she was just a fraction of an inch from joining his skin with hers…

Then he was gone.

Her father had vanished, along with Edith’s temporary sense of contentment.

* * *

 

Edith felt herself to be pale and worn the next day. To hide the lack of color in her cheeks, she made an extra effort to smile, to laugh, to bubble in excitement, but her fatigue stemming from the lack of a good night’s sleep halted her ability to make witty conversation.

Alan didn’t seem to notice at lunch, delighted at having reunited with his now-fiancée. He gaily talked of the wedding plans he and his mother and his sisters had made so far -- the venue (the McMichaels’ church, as the Cushings had been inconsistent churchgoers), the flowers, the guests (the vast majority of whom were related to the McMichaels in some way; Edith could only invite a rather cold godmother living in Ithaca), the tailored clothes, the honeymoon (San Francisco)...

Edith smiled weakly as Alan paused to take a sip of wine. “It seems you have everything under control,” she said. “I’m glad to hear your mother has been supportive.”

Alan’s smile reflected hers. “It has to be said that she took a little time to get used to the idea of us marrying,” he said. “But she is well-aware that I have loved you for a long time.”

Edith ached to hear this proof of Alan’s goodness. He was just so _kind_.

Changing the subject -- she was far more eager to talk about this, a topic close to her own heart -- Edith leaned in and asked, “So, have you read my book yet?”

Something shifted within Alan, as if he had been steeling himself for this question. He brushed his knee, as if repelling lint, and replied, with his eyes matching hers: “Indeed I have, Edith.”

“Well? What did you think?”

Her hands had been folded above the table; she presently laid them on her lap. She was nervous about his response.

“You were so brave, Edith,” Alan said quietly. “Braver than I could have ever anticipated.”

He looked downwards, as if gathering his thoughts.

She impatiently waited for him to continue. Catching her look, he said, “I didn’t think you would write down all those… unsettling things about the Sharpes. They were quite… shocking.”

“Shocking?”

“Yes. You know… about the siblings’... er, relationship, and well, all that other nasty business to do with the family. I thought the book was quite shocking enough without saying things that were borderline libel.”

“But they’re _dead_ , Alan! It’s not libel if there’s no person to be defamed. And it is most definitely not libel if it is absolutely _true_.”

Her voice had risen to a passionate pitch. She noticed Alan’s eyes were darting from side to side, concerned about the other restaurant patrons whose interests were being piqued.

“Edith, other people can hear,” Alan said uneasily.

“Let them! They can read about it in my book, anyhow. It’s no secret. If I cannot write the truth, what _else_ can I write about?”

* * *

 

The ghost of Carter Cushing had planted the seed of doubt in his daughter’s mind. Edith paced around in her father’s study that evening, after leaving the restaurant in a huff. She was deeply annoyed and hoped her argument and words had swayed Alan’s opinion.

She paused when she noticed the title of a spine on the shelves behind her father’s handsome mahogany desk. _Jane Eyre_ , by Charlotte Brontë. She felt astonished as she reached for the battered hardback; her father preferred nonfiction that could explain the mysteries of the seen world, books that could tell him which tools and methodologies to use for each task. _Jane Eyre_ was most definitely not his preference for light reading -- it was hers.

He must have borrowed it from her library before his death without asking her -- his emerald silk bookmark had been left near the end of the book.

Her eye fell to the page: it was the part Jane turned down St. John’s proposal of marriage. She wanted to work alongside him as a missionary in India, but realized he would never love her:

“I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness.  There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march trample down: but as his wife — at his side always, and always restrained, and always checked — forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital — _this_ would be unendurable.”

As she slid to the floor and read the entire chapter, Edith recognized Jane’s feelings mirroring her own. Their situations were different -- Alan clearly loved her, but St. John didn’t have the capacity to love Jane. But unlike Jane, Edith was coming to realize a thought that had nagged her for months: Alan didn’t grasp the depths of emotion she had to offer; he didn’t understand the way her mind worked, the way she desperately needed to express herself in her writing. He was, to put it simply, earthbound.

And there was nothing wrong with that.

* * *

 

She told him of her changed feelings -- nay, her true feelings -- the very next day at lunch. At first, he could only stare at her, numbed and unable to speak. Finally, with an expression of a shattered man, he merely said that he would inform his family of their cancelled plans. He tipped his hat to her and dazedly walked away, tears already clustering in the corners of his eyes.

Edith watched with sympathy as Alan shuffled away, viewing him from the restaurant window. Then she slowly walked home herself, mulling over their conversation. She felt undeniably relieved, as well as full of sorrow for the future that could have been. She hoped she made the right decision. She was oddly unemotional -- perhaps the tears, the anger, the sense of regret would come later.

She was a widow. Perhaps Alan was her only opportunity to get remarried.

She trembled at this thought; she sighed; she felt a sense of release wash over her. Edith would follow her heart, not the story of her life as dictated by society.

 _This was not the end of the story_ , she told herself. She was still in the middle -- no, the beginning -- of the story of her life. There would be other chances, other loves she had yet to encounter. There were many things to do that she had yet to do, and perhaps she was _meant_ to do them alone, as a widow.

As she approached the steps to her house, a nearby voice interrupted her thoughts:

“Edith?”

It was a polite, cultured voice, undeniably familiar. She spun around and saw a tall, thin figure, smartly dressed with a dark suit and milk pale skin. He looked at her expectantly, anxious.

He looked like a ghost.

Darkness swept over her and she saw no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few literary references:
> 
> \- Edith Wharton began publishing her books around this time (1902), although I'm not sure if she ever wrote criticism. But what the hell, I'll try imitate her.
> 
> \- If there weren't enough signposts in this chapter, of course I was inspired by Jane Eyre. I think Edith is a lot like Jane Eyre, not to mention Mia Wasikowska has played both characters.
> 
> And sorry to all you Edith/Alan shippers. I know they might have a bright future together... just not in this story. :)


	4. Edith Cushing

* * *

“Ghosts are real. This much I know.

There are things that tie them to a place, very much like they do us.

Some remain tethered to a patch of land, a time and date, a spilling of blood, a terrible crime.

There are others, others that hold onto an emotion, a drive, loss, revenge, or love.

Those: they never go away.”

Edith Cushing, _Crimson Peak_

* * *

 

“Edith.”

Her eyes fluttered. The shadows of leaves flickered above her. She could feel the tickle of the grass underneath her, the warm protection of an arm encircled around her…

_Whose arm?_ She thought sleepily.

As she slowly returned to consciousness, she realized that she was lying on a lawn, her head on someone’s lap.

She blinked. She saw familiar blue eyes gazing down at her, a hand stroking her hair.

It was Thomas Sharpe.

“Are you… a ghost?” she asked dazedly.

“I’m not a ghost,” he replied, tenderly brushing away the strands of curly blonde hair covering her eyes.

“But you’re dead,” she said. “I saw your ghost.”

He smiled. Despite her continued conviction that this conversation was occurring in an unnatural reality, the sincerity of his smile warmed Edith, spread inside of her. It felt as if she had slogged for a year in a blizzard, only for a glimpse of this warm smile.

“I know. I’ve read your book -- and well, that was a striking scene that can’t quite be explained, I’m afraid. But perhaps not everything has a logical explanation. Perhaps I died for a moment there… I certainly felt as if I had.”

She sat up, closely examining him. His hair was ruffled and slightly damp, as if he had stood outside in a gale for an entire day and had thought of combing it back just before she regained consciousness. (She smiled internally at the thought: Thomas as anxious suitor.) His skin was pale, as if it had not seen sun for years. His suit was simple in style and slightly worn and wrinkled, as if he had worn it for a straight week. His eyes were tired -- overall, he seemed fatigued. She noticed a healed scar, a thin white line spread across his left cheekbone.

“You fainted,” he said in explanation. “You need rest. I saw you in front of your house, you fainted in front of me, and I carried you here to this park.”

Edith suddenly became aware of the presence of the park -- it was just two blocks from her home -- and of the handkerchief clutched in his hand. He must have been wiping her forehead with it.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he murmured softly in her ear.

She reached out, touching his forehead. It was solid, firm, warm, alive, with blood rushing underneath the opaque layer of his skin. His eyes gazed downward as her fingers slid by his ear and lingered on his skin. His eyelashes brushed his cheekbones.

He felt real. He _was_ real.

She tried to absorb the fine features of his face, which she thought she had forgotten. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment,” she said softly in a voice very unlike her own. Then she put her hand to her mouth, almost stifling a giggle.

“What?”

“It’s just…” She smiled -- more boldly than before, it hurt her face to do so, it touched her entire being -- in jest. “It just sounds so melodramatic. I’ve been dreaming of you, thinking of you, longing to see you again… these words belong to a story.”

He grinned nervously, licking his chapped lips. “I myself am half-convinced we are meeting in a story.” Thomas dropped his voice suddenly. “My darling Edith. I thought I would never see you again.”

She raised her eyebrows and felt herself lean into him. “But… what happened? If…” she paused, realizing her voice was close to cracking with emotion. “If you were alive… why haven’t you come to see me earlier?”

His eyes -- always so piercing, so sensitive to her feelings -- softened as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Closing the distance between them, he laid a kiss on top of her head.

“Because,” he said slowly. “I thought you didn’t love me. And why should you?” Thomas’ voice rose, strengthened by conviction and anger at himself. “Why should you love a man with so many vices, so many ghosts behind him? It made no sense, and you, my dear, have a great deal of sense. I don’t even know why you accepted my proposal in the first place.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered. The torment on his face shocked her. He shut his eyes tightly, as if ready for a blow.

“I saw you walking away from Allerdale,” he muttered. “Walking away from me. I saw you and Alan from the attic window. You two had each other. Alan could offer you a much brighter future than I ever could. I knew… I knew I loved you and had to let you go.”

He paused, as if looking back brought him a physical pain. He exhaled and began his story:

“Lucille had stabbed me in the chest and in the face, when I confronted her in the attic after I saw you at the elevator. I thought I was done for. She dashed after you and I was left dying on the attic floor. I think I passed out for a while. By the time I regained consciousness, it must have been all over. I crawled to the window -- I had heard Lucille screaming at you outside. I saw you and Alan helping each other up and walking towards the gate. You… you never came back.”

“Thomas!” she cried. “I thought you were _dead_! I saw your ghost -- your ghost saved my life when I fought Lucille!”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes misty, unfocused.

“I would have come back,” said Edith firmly. “If I had known.”

“I don’t blame you at all, Edith. Anyhow, Finlay wandered into the house, found me and saved my life, nursed me back to health. He’s missing a few marbles, of course, but the bastard has a heart of gold.”

She repeated her question from earlier: “If you were alive all this time, why haven’t you come to see me?”

Thomas withdrew his arm and directed his gaze away from her, not meeting her eyes. “I’ve told you why.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“Why are you here now?”

He sighed. “Edith, sometimes you are so exasperating with all these questions. I’m here now because I read your book.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “What?”

“I read it and I realized you still loved me.”

She could hardly breathe. Her head spun, it felt light --

“Your book was practically a love letter. I… I hadn’t even dared to hope.” Thomas suddenly broke his examination of the trees in the distance. “Edith! Are you all right?”

“Yes… just give me a moment.” She gulped some air. She exhaled. She inhaled. “Did you… did you like my book?”

She wanted, of course, to hear his opinion, but she was also anxious of listening to his honesty. He had hurt her before with his opinions.

“It goes without saying,” he murmured, his voice dropping again in volume and increasing in intimacy.

They sat there in silence in the empty clearing. Edith looked him, her heart fluttering. She had so many questions; she only hoped she had enough time with him to hear his answers.

She never quite knew who he was, despite being married to him. His eyes, now focused intently on hers, hid depths of emotion.

She reached out again with a gentle hand, stroking his cold cheek, fingering the white scar across his cheek. He seemed to shiver at her touch, startled by her affection. He placed his own hand on top of hers, willing her not to leave.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

He glanced up, looking a little wary, before answering in a tiny voice. “Paris. I’ve been working in Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

He half smiled, half grimaced. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he said reluctantly. “I’ve been working on motion pictures and the equipment used to make them. I’ve… I’ve always been interested in photography and originally wanted to travel to France after I read about what the Lumière brothers were working on. It’s astonishing work -- beautiful, awe-inspiring, very interesting technology… some people say movies are a faddish interest, but I disagree. This could be the future!”

His eyes were alight with enthusiasm -- the sudden change in his countenance surprised Edith, pleased her -- it reminded her of Thomas in his studio, tinkering, thinking…

“So why didn’t you…”

“Go earlier?” He casted his eyes downward, unsure of what to say. “Well… Lucille… we were in Milan at the time and Lucille didn’t want me to leave her side. She thought it was a silly idea and she… she said she needed me.”

Edith nodded. She thought: they would have to talk about Lucille someday, her plans, her actions -- but not today. _Not today, not yet._

“I didn’t have much money, of course, but suddenly… after you and Lucille had gone, I felt I might as well. I didn’t have anything else I really wanted to do and I certainly could not stay at Allerdale. I’ve been working with Georges Méliès for the last few months. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him -- “

“Yes!” Edith interrupted. “I just viewed _A Trip to the Moon_ a few months ago. You worked on _that_ , Thomas? I thought it was absolutely wonderful.”

Thomas broke into a luminous smile. “Yes, I did,” he replied. “I really thought you would find this whole endeavor silly or ridiculous, as… well. Working on motion pictures does sound rather silly, doesn’t it?”

“Why would I find them silly?” she said, grinning. “I love them. I love the fantasies they create. And I love _you_ , all the more if you helped create them.”

They sat a little longer in the deserted meadow, savoring the unique joy their reunion had given them. Then they got up, walked away, arm in arm, Edith leaning on Thomas, all the while thinking about their new future together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the ending didn't put you off -- I just liked the idea of trying to make the ridiculous Gothic idea of making a supposedly dead character coming back to life a little bit believable. Thanks for reading. :)
> 
> Edit: I've also written a sequel from Thomas' POV: [Love Is the Plot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5527718)


End file.
